


enough to drown you

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, listen. someone had to write the angsty followup to all the evan/peter in this fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:15:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23851432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: She goes looking for Evan because it’s cold in the house. Oddly cold.
Relationships: Naomi Herne/Evan Lukas
Comments: 4
Kudos: 63
Collections: Anonymous





	enough to drown you

**Author's Note:**

> Evan didn't die and also took Naomi's name because I said so, and also I love them.

She goes looking for Evan because it’s cold in the house. Oddly cold.

Naomi doesn’t mind the cold so much, or rather, she didn’t once upon a time. Once upon a time, she also wasn’t the kind of person who reacted to the cold with the desire to _cuddle._ She’d grab a blanket, maybe, if the chill was biting. That was all before she met Evan.

Evan hadn’t made her a different person. Not really, not truly; she was still the same Naomi who wrote scathing anonymous articles about the physics department because they were pompous assholes, the same Naomi who picked the same order at every restaurant despite Evan’s sigh, the same Naomi who sketched frogs out in the rain whenever the mood and weather struck. But she wasn’t the Naomi who sat alone in cold rooms. Not anymore.

Usually she just put it down to the fact that Evan didn’t really like the cold, although she knows it’s a lie. His body temperature runs low and he’s not all too fond of layering up like Naomi does, so the heater stays on in the house. But really, he’s made _her_ warmer. Sappier. The kind of person who notices a chill and thinks it might be nice to abandon the report she’s looking at and just... lay in her husband’s lap.

She comes down the stairs, expecting to find him reading on the couch, but he’s not. His book is left abandoned on the table, dog-eared and filled with sticky notes. It’s colder down here.

The soft cloud in her chest, anticipating curling against Evan and watching him scrunch his nose and scribble something new in his book, fades in the face of an odd twinge of fear.

Standing alone in their living room, she almost calls out for him. Then she hears his voice, muffled from behind the front door: “Get out of here.”

A cheerful, unfamiliar voice responds to him, asking, “What, you don’t want to see me? Evan, I’m hurt.”

“Why would I ever want to see you.” Naomi frowns as she creeps forward, towards the door. Evan sounds clipped, hard and angry, in ways Naomi rarely sees from him.

She glances at the window, but some kind of fog has rolled in, and all she can see through it are glimpses of the brown wood of the porch. “Ouch. Cruel of you,” the other man mocks.

“Christ,” Evan says. “How did you get my address? I don’t- I don’t want you here. We can talk if you’re going to insist, but not he--” he cuts off with a startled noise and a _thud_. Her blood runs cold, but her limbs are frozen solid. Naomi’s hand rests on the knob, but she can’t bring herself to turn it.

“Careful about your tongue,” says the other man. “Getting out of the house gave you some backbone, hmm? Not a terrible look on you, actually.”

Evan’s voice is raw when he chokes, “Get off- Peter, get _off of me--”_ with something cornered and terrified in him that Naomi doesn’t recognize. The plea jerks Naomi out of it, and she rips open the door.

Thick smoke, or fog, drifts out over her feet, numbing her toes. If the cold was biting in the house, it’s indescribable out here, despite the mid-afternoon sun. Not that she can _see_ the sun with all the fog. Evan is pressed against the wall by a much taller man- Peter- salt taking over the pepper in his grey hair. Peter’s gaze swings to Naomi immediately, and some of the terrible glee fades out of his face. He’s got one hand gripping Evan’s jaw tight but manages to look casual about it, and Evan’s eyes are wide and frantic and angry.

The chill steals her breath, but she fights for one anyway and says, “Get the hell away from him.” She grabs at his outstretched arm, trying to put herself between him and Evan. This ‘Peter’ has got at nearly a foot on Naomi, but she’s willing and raring to knee him in the balls. Anyone who makes Evan look like that deserves it.

“Hello Mrs. Lukas,” he says, chipper. To Naomi’s surprise, he backs off easily. Evan’s chest heaves where he pulls himself away from the wall.

“ _Herne_ ,” Evan practically snarls back at him. His jaw is set in anger and colored a tell-tale red of an early bruise, but his hands are shaking. Naomi takes one, uncurls its fist, and twines the fingers in her own.

Peter’s gaze flickers down to their clasped hands in distaste, but his voice is mild and polite when he says, “Oh? Calling yourself Herne too, now?” That’s when it clicks.

_(She’d asked if he was going home for the holiday, in those first weeks, and he’d smiled in the way he does when he had a carefully rehearsed answer._

_“Ah, I don’t go home too often. They’re a bit religious for my tastes,” with that blinding Evan smile._

_It wasn’t the truth, or at least not the whole thing. But Naomi understood what it meant.)_

Of course.

The relation is all in the eyes, shock-grey. Peter’s broader, with a few more decades of age on his face, and doesn’t have the same bone structure. All flat nose and eyes so deep-set you could almost miss the way they pierced you. Mostly, though, he’s missing the... sheer _life_ Evan has. He looks hollow under all that beard.

“If you don’t get off the property,” Naomi says, clear and concise. “I am going to call the police.”

Peter regards her thoughtfully. “You sure about taking her name? This one would make an excellent Lukas.”

“No,” says Evan, shifting to pull them both back. “You do _not_ get her. She is not yours, you can’t--”

“And why can’t I?”

Something in Peter’s eyes is hungry where he looks down at her. His gaze is icy and distant like he’s not even really looking at her, yet somehow she feels like prey.

She forgets she’s holding Evan’s hand until she lets go of it, bristling. “I’m calling the police,” she says, keeping her voice as level as possible. Taking two steps to the door, she pauses. Leaving the two of them alone is a bad idea, something tells her.

When she turns back to call him in, he’s gone.

So is Peter.

So is... everything.

The fog has descended suddenly upon her, joints creaking in the cold where she pulls them in. “Evan?” she calls, reaching out in the mist. Everything past her shoulders quickly disappears into the gray. “Evan- are you alright?”

Her voice is muted, strangled, but she hears Evan’s returning, “Naomi?” like it’s through a corridor.

Before she can even get her mouth open, Peter’s speaking again, echoing around her like a tunnel. Bastard. “Sorry about that, really. But this is family business, and if you’re so insistent on keeping her out of it...”

Evan’s steely, “I’m not a Lukas either,” ratchets around her like static.

“Very cute, that confidence. I did miss when you had fight in you.”

_“Stop that.”_ Fear cracks its way into his voice. “I’m not some touch-starved brat anymore, you can’t just--”

“Ah-ah,” Peter interrupts. “Before you say whatever I’m sure has been brewing on your chest the last ten years, I ought to tell you: she can still hear you. Don’t want to say anything you might want to keep... discrete, mm?” Evan is quiet for a long moment, and Peter gives a low chuckle.

Naomi burns with anger at the sound. Hot enough to flush her face, bring feeling back to her limbs. She moves to reach through the staticky mist, do something, anything to get the prick away from Evan. The mist parts enough for her to see him, just barely- the edges of his gray jumper and brown hair, the grey of his eyes.

Then, with one mildly inconvenienced noise, everything goes grey and dark and frozen.

She’s not sure how long it takes to fade. One moment she’s in the empty nothing, and then there’s the porch under her feet. Grass in the fields and the blue of the sky exist again, and as the fog ebbs, she realizes she must have been just... standing there.

Evan and Peter have left long since, but she’s not sure how long it’s been. When she steps back inside, the cold has retreated, and she gets the sick sensation that it’s useless to call for him. He’s gone.

The cold might have retreated from the house, but she feels it around her heart, in the cracks of her knuckles and the empty space between her bones. Dazed, she stumbled up the stairs and into her study. It’s the place in her house that’s truly hers; Evan doesn’t come in unless she asks. There’s a chair and small blanket, so she curls herself up in it. The blanket is colder than the air, but it helps, a little.

After a couple hours of sitting, letting the warmth seep back in, she pulls herself to her feet. Her phone lays where she left it that morning, on the charger in the bedroom. She dials Evan’s number with numb hands.

_“Hey! You’ve reached the number of Evan Herne. I’ll be back at my phone eventually, so leave a message at the beep.”_

She hangs up before the tone sounds and then calls again. This time, she catches the faint sound of ringing from across the house.

His phone, sitting on the living room table.

“Right,” she says to herself, just to hear it. “Right.” Then she calls the police. Evan’s reported officially missing after some stumbling trying to explain what happened, insisting that no, he would not have gone willingly with a relative, and they assure her that they’ll be looking. “Right.”

Without anything else to do, she reads. It’s Evan’s book, but he’s marked his page, so she starts from the beginning without fear. Well, for the book, anyway. The sun goes down and she has to turn on a lamp, but she can’t bring herself to go to bed. Not without Evan.

In the end, he comes back near midnight. The door opens and the cold nips at Naomi, but any mind to it is discarded at the sight of him.

Christ. Evan looks _empty_. His eyes flicker to her and his face creases, agonized. “I- Naomi.” She takes two steps forward, wanting to embrace him, but he flinches back into the door violently. His whole frame shakes as he slides down to the floor, head in his knees. “I’m.. I’m so sorry.”

Carefully, Naomi settles on the floor near him, just slow enough that he doesn’t spook. “...are you alright?” she asks, knowing the answer. His clothes are rumpled and his face is red and blotchy and his eyes are wet, like he’d just finished sobbing and might start again at any moment. “Is he gone?”

“He’s gone,” he confirms, nodding to himself. His voice is distant and scratchy, and Naomi aches for him. “They won’t bother you. Ever.” _But what about you,_ she thinks, frowning. Then he says, “I’ve been lying to you. I’m sorry. I thought I could protect..”

This Evan, shattered into pieces, is something unfamiliar to Naomi. She’s not entirely sure how to react. “Lying?”

He looks past her, around her, refuses to let his hollow eyes land anywhere near her. “I cheated on you. I didn’t- that’s not what I’m lying about, and I didn’t- I didn’t _want to_ , but it wasn’t.. I couldn’t stop--”

It takes a moment for what he’s saying to click. When it does, something angry burns in her. She keeps her face schooled neutrally, fighting back the fury at whatever did this to him. “Then it wasn’t cheating,” she says quietly. “Can I take your hand?”

Finally, he meets her eyes. Just for a moment. “Please.” Naomi reaches out and takes one hand from where it grips uselessly at the floor, scoots herself closer to him, and squeezes. It brings him back a little, fuzzy edges hardening into clear lines. She lets him sit quietly, getting a handle on his breathing. “My family worships a god,” he says out of the blue. “And it’s real. And it wants you, and I--” the tears spill over into jerking sobs, hiding his face. “I can’t- it can _not_ have you.”

“It’s not going to take me,” she says, brow furrowed. “Evan, I’m not going anywhere.”

“It’s on you,” he murmurs, despairing. She doesn’t believe him, but it makes the chill prickle on her back anyway.

Naomi pulls just a little closer, and asks, “Can I hold you?”

“ _Please_ ,” Evan says, eyes shut. She leans forward, wraps her arms around him, and he tenses up under her. His jugular flutters with a rapid heartbeat, and she tries to pull back, but Evan’s hand snaps out to grab her wrist. “Don’t. Please- I--” and he leans into her. Naomi takes it for the invitation it is and hoists Evan into her lap, letting him cry on her shoulder as she holds him tight, fuming. Her first priority is to make sure Evan is alright. Her second is to make sure the Lukas family _pays_.

She shushes him and keeps her voice soft. “I’m going to bring you upstairs,” she tells him, starts pulling him up. Evan doesn’t resist as she brings him to their bedroom, occasionally mumbling apologies that Naomi soothes. When they’re curled up in bed, Evan starts talking about his family’s religion again. It’s all despondent murmurs, spoken too choked for Naomi to understand much of, but she catches bits and pieces. The ‘One Alone,’ ‘Forsaken.’ Something about fourteen and isolation and being shut up in his house, but when his voice starts catching, the stories working him up, Naomi says, “Quiet, Evan,” soft and with a kiss to his hair. “In the morning.”

Evan nods an assent and stays quiet until his breathing steadies, shoulders slumping with sleep. Naomi follows suit sometime later, and when she wakes, the bed is empty. Drowsy with sleep but bright with alarm, she sits up. “Evan?”

He appears in the doorway as if summoned, holding a mug. “Morning,” he greets, looking... for all the world like nothing had happened the night before. “Coffee’s brewing.”

Despite the situation, she can’t help the warmth that flutters through her, soft and domestic. Evan looks at her like she means the world, and she can feel her own face softening into something sappy. Still, as she pulls herself out of bed, she asks, “Are you alright?”

His expression flickers, and he offers a deflecting chuckle. “Yeah, I’m... I’ll be fine. Are you?” With his free arm, he pulls her in for a short embrace before they go downstairs.

“Of course I’m fine,” says Naomi, almost affronted. Piercing, entrapping mist aside, only one of them had been missing and crying last night. Still, she won’t push. Just takes his hand and squeezes.

“If you’re sure,” he replies. “I’ve got pancakes mixing downstairs. Blueberry or chocolate chip?”

Naomi wrinkles her nose in disgust just to hear Evan’s sparkling laughter. “Your insistence on ruining perfectly good pancakes hurts me.”

He leaves her side to cross the kitchen, pouring the mix into the skillet. Thankfully, he doesn’t reach for any additions. “Your plain taste hurts me.” She scoffs and sits at the breakfast bar, watching him cook.

When they’re done, he puts them on two plates and sits across from her, purposefully butchering _bon appétite!_ with a smile. She swats him gently and digs into her food, letting a contented silence fall between them. Still, she can’t stop searching his face, waiting to see if he’s going to bring up the night before. Though she can’t tell whether he will, she asks anyway, settling her fork against the plate. “So. Last night?”

Evan’s hand stills. “Ah. Um.” He gives her a little smile, tense. “Sorry about that.”

“Sorry for what?” Naomi responds plainly. “You’re allowed to be upset.”

His eyes skate away from her own, looking down to the plate. “..Bit embarrassing, ‘s all.” With a heavy sigh, he shakes his head. “I do owe you... an explanation.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” she refutes, giving him a long look. “I’ll listen, but you don’t have... some obligation.”

When he laughs, it’s mirthless. “No, I... I think you’ll find I do, honestly. I- so, my family. Um.” Drumming his fingers on the table, he gives another sigh. “I think you’ve gathered that they’re a bit of a cult? I don’t remember how much of what I said last night was particularly _coherent_ , but we- they have a bit of a family religion. Actual texts seem conflicted about it, but they always refer to it as their god. It’s called the Lonely, or the Forsaken, and it’s...” He looks up, actually meeting her eyes. “Hm. I don’t think I’ve ever tried to explain this to someone before.”

She says, “It’s alright,” and Evan nods, continues.

He tells her about the One Alone and Smirke’s Fourteen, with the caveat that, “I studied them when I was younger, but I have to be honest, I don’t care about any of it. I always just wanted out. Forsaken is the only one I’m... _familiar_ with.”

After a pause, Naomi asks, “Is that.. what the mist was? The Forsaken?”

Evan nods with a grimace. “Peter, he sent you to the realm of The Lonely,” he confirms. “I’m- I’m sorry about that, I--”

“Evan, it’s _alright._ Not a fun time, but that’s.. that wasn’t your fault.”

The hum he gives indicates he doesn’t fully believe her. “It’s.. yeah, it’s not fun. I should have told you, before we got married- before I tied you to me. I was going to, I think, and then - you proposed, and I...” He swallows. “I don’t know. I thought I’d escaped it. They hadn’t bothered me in years, I thought I was free, but. A Lukas once and forever, I suppose.” Bitterness makes his voice tight. “The, ah... The Lonely has always been on you. I saw it on you, back at UCL, that’s why I always insist on, you know. Going out, being social. It drives it away.

“My family, though, shouldn’t bother you. Apparently my father wants the entire family to forget about me which- fine by me. Uncle Peter is the only one who ever goes against his word, and I got- I made a...” his eyes drift away, clouding. “Well, Peter should leave you be.”

Naomi grabs his hand again, and he smiles at her, brought back by the touch. “Hm. I don’t suppose they would be weak to a legal takedown, would they? I- ah. Well, I need to _un_ report you as a missing person, but... I don’t know, would framing them for murder?”

Somehow, they end up drifting to the couch, plates abandoned on the counter, and Evan laughs. “You wouldn’t have to frame them.” He falters at Naomi’s startled look, and goes, “Oh. Um. Yeah, that’s... that’s part of their thing. Cult stuff. They’ve got the sort of money and reputation that makes the police back off. Terrible, but it is the only reason I was able to pull off running away like I did. They were, um.” A look crosses his face, like he’s searching for words. “They- all-- Ugh. Just, every way I’m fucked up? That’s their fault. They were bad.”

“I gathered as much,” she says quietly.

For a second, he looks confused. Then every muscle in him tenses up, eyes clenched shut in pained memory. “ _Ah._ Last night, I--”

“Implied--”

“Right.” His words are short, eyes still closed. “I... Christ. I hate Peter,” he murmurs, forcing himself to relax.

“I _hate Peter_ ,” Naomi agrees with a viciousness. “You should get a therapist,” she tacks on, almost an afterthought. Usually counselors were the sort of thing Naomi ignored, but she hates seeing Evan like this.

He looks almost thoughtful in his discomfort, before shaking himself loose. “Maybe I should,” he agrees hesitantly. “Later. Right now, I just...” he pulls her forward, and Naomi slots herself into his side. “Want to be near you.”

“Of course,” she replies, leaning to kiss him. “Drives away The Lonely, right?”

Evan smiles, eyes glittering. His smile always looks like the sun, but here it feels like warmth after a rainstorm. She loves him. She loves him so much.

“Right.”


End file.
